


i was there, when you grew restless / (not) left in the dead of night

by murphysics



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternative Universe? i dunno, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gerry kNoWs things, M/M, Sickfic, T for Gerry's swearing, it's angsty or fluffy? it hurts, not much though, pre-Spiral!Michael, timeline got a bit not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 14:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22717822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysics/pseuds/murphysics
Summary: Gerard stands up from his spot — few folders fall from the table and Michael feels apologetic expression forming on his face, but manages to turn it into exasperation. He’s too tired for that. Keay just chuckles, moving onto the chair next to Michael's table. Micheal wonders if he's going to put his legs up as well. That would not be pleasant."God, mate," Keay says, suddenly very close and curious, "You look like shit."
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	i was there, when you grew restless / (not) left in the dead of night

**Author's Note:**

> so. i hereby dedicate this piece of work to my lovely michael. happy valentines day!!!!! agh. enjoy the dorks

After drinking two bowls of microwaved takeaway veggie soup, Michael falls into bed half-asleep, tired and dizzy from the heat, creeping at his neck and sore throat. 

_"And I told her, I always said to her, time and time again, I said: get out,"_ says Martha Jones to the Doctor, and Michael allows himself to let out a wheeze, feeling wetness at the corner of his eyes. He feels pathetic and fragile, and God he hopes it’ll pass by morning because he absolutely does not need _that_ at work. 

“ _When this rings, you better come running,_ ” smiles Martha, throwing a cosmic phone at David Tennant, the Doctor who never forgets. Michael sighs and the sleep takes him. 

Even two blankets and dreamless slumber, full of sweat and subconscious weariness don't beat his fever. Michael refuses to listen to reason (represented by his aching bones, for Christ sake, he didn’t even hit thirty) and takes his heavy limbs to the shower. 

His coffee tastes like ash, so he composes hot lemon water and honey in his travel mug to get himself through the morning tube. The weather is wet and warm. People are sweaty and the smell is, well… 

Entering the coldness of office, he notices two things: first, his nose stopped running like crazy, so there is actually a chance to get things _done;_ second, Gerard Keay's legs are on one of the tables, paper piles are messily moved aside. Michael knows it's his legs, because only Gerard would wear such heavy boots in July.

He frowns at the mess and announces himself with a tentative cough, that evolves in a deep, wet and rumbling coughing fit. He wheezes pathetically and shakes his head. 

"I told you this work kills," Keay says, almost friendly. 

"Mr. Keay," Michael greets, heavy and hoarse; as it occurs, talking is pretty painful. He puts the bag on his desk and goes to put the kettle on. "Ms. Robinson will be here at eleven." 

"I know," Keay nods. 

"Talk to me," Keay asks at some point, and Michael looks up from Robert Geiger’s article about mysterious American winds, called _Fear in their Handful._ They've anticipated Buried ritual happening somewhen last year, but he heard no news about anything that might be related to it, — and the knowledge of _nothing_ doesn’t sit with him very well. _What if the world ended and nobody noticed_ isn't exactly the most calming thought, but Ms. Robinson dodges his question in the half-adorable, half-strict way she does everything.

Thus, _this._

I'm in the middle of something, Michael wants to respond, blinking at the Geiger's black-and-white face looking at him from the newspaper. 

"Fine, then," Michael agrees, making a large gulp from his third tea for this morning. "What happened to the Buried ritual?" 

Keay laughs, coldly, quietly, and says: "It failed" on the inhale, still with (a bit) scary smile on his face. "Fears just can't get themselves together nowadays." 

"How?"

Gerard stands up from his spot — few folders fall from the table and Michael feels apologetic expression forming on his face, but manages to switch it towards exasperation. He’s too tired for sorries. Keay just chuckles, moving onto the chair next to Michael's table. Micheal wonders if he's going to put his legs up as well. That would not be pleasant. 

"God, mate," Keay says, suddenly very close and curious, "You look like shit." 

Michael raises his eyebrows and, of course, momentarily sneezes, taking a napkin from a package with a speed he didn't believe his limbs are capable of. He trashes it and feels the blood flushing his cheeks. They didn’t exactly talk earlier (if you don’t count arguing about some Slaughter-related case Michael researched in one of his first visits.) Gerard Keay doesn’t seem a talkative type, which is, honestly, not surprising, considering the fact he looks at you as if he’s about to throw a screaming match. But Michael keeps his assumptions at bay. 

"Yeah, one of the visitors yesterday, well. Didn't seem well?" He says, putting his palms around a travel mug. "Sorry about the face, I guess. Anyway…" 

"I thought you don't record statements," Keay's tone is flat and Michael's humming in the mug, thinking of whether or not to complain to the person he sees, what, fourth time? about his overworking boss who doesn't let him _help_ her. He decides not. 

"I spend half an hour with her after," he admits, making a small sip. Lukewarm liquid tastes _disgusting._ "She was stressed." 

Gerard Keay looks at him with an unreadable expression for a few moments and sighs, like he can't believe Michael is capable of compassion. Michael looks at Geiger's photo again, silently asking the journalist how the hell to react to this. 

"The Vast," says Keay, placing his cheek on the palm. He follows Michael's eyes and also looks at the newspaper. 

"Oh," Michael nods and offers Gerard a weak smile. 

He thought about this. He actually chose between the Vast and the Spiral, because the Spiral was all about _not there, not exactly,_ which was quite unacceptable for the Earthly, definitive and solid substance of Buried. He never gave voice to these thoughts. 

"I'm going for a fucking walk," suddenly snaps Keay, stands up and walks out of the office with inhuman speed. Michael blinks and shrugs to himself, trying not to overthink it too much. He fails, of course. 

"That's because you're boring when you're sick," he tells himself and smiles at the cactus on his table. 

  
  
  


Michael's dreams are heated and damp. He's with his friend, Alice, who left for Belgium a few days ago — on some painting workshop from her partners. They lay on the beach. Michael's face is hidden under the towel, the sea tickles his toes. Alice laughs, and it's a good sound, and says: "It's good to get away sometimes, huh." 

"Affirmative," he smiles in the towel. 

"Shelley," Gerard Keay's voice says, "I brought you some medical shit." 

"But I'm on vacation," Michael protests. He feels so good under the sunlight, so warm. He misses Alice. He's not sick. 

"Michael," the voice calls again, insistent. The dream dissolves. 

"Bloody fuck, man, you _burn_ ," Michael wakes up with Keay's hand on his forehead. Damp forehead. He straightens in his chair, disoriented, and frowns at the bag from the pharmacy on the table. 

"Gertrude called, said she won't come today," Keay says. "She also told me to walk you home."

"What? What happened? Is she ok?" Unpleasant, bubbling worry raises in Michael's stomach. Alice worked part-time in a daycare for elderly and told him all kinds of stories about them falling and hurting and something. They overestimated their abilities at some point, forgot their age and went on adventures. That didn’t end well. 

"Good lord. She's fine, just _peachy_. Her niece came visiting," Keay says, and adds, with a strange grimace Michael too hazy to interpret. "You know she's always careful." 

"True," Michael admits, and that, somehow, calms his down. And… "Walk me home? Why?" 

Keay, unexpectedly, grins - which looks really _weird_ in Michael’s feverish mind and on his face, in general. "Okay, maybe I made that up. But she gave you sick leave, and I have nothing to do today anymore, so," he moves his eyebrows, suggestively, "maybe you're up for a company?" 

"What," that was planned as flat and tired, but Keay's innuendo-transmitting face forced him in a choked laugh. Michael wants to ask why. Wants to politely refuse and construct a case of a very contagious virus that threatens Gerard Keay's well-being. Wants to remind him they don't know each other, like, at all. Instead, he sighs, and composes a smile, "Mr. Keay enjoys people's suffering?" 

Gerard shrugs and pointedly shoves in Michael’s hands his bag. "Mr. Keay enjoys no such thing." 

After Michael guiltily stands before his desk and shakes the head in disappointment — three out of ten things completed, unacceptable, — and Keay makes a show of the loudest eyerolling Michael has seen, ever, — they take the tube to his station. 

Gerard enters the shop near his place, telling him something about refrigerators and cold, but Michael honestly doesn't care, so he stays outside, his hair gets warm from the sun. His temples throb a bit from the fever, but it's already getting a bit better — he drank some of the quick meds Keay bought. Which, maybe, involved a few minutes of bickering about money. There certainly was some bickering in his mind. If he didn't manage to convey it verbally, he absolutely should.

Keay emerges from the shop with a large bag and Michael pretends he didn’t notice. Who is this guy? There will be some bickering, he promises to himself. Later. 

He forgets to be self-conscious due to dizziness from the stairs - some statements quite possibly pop up in his head when he stumbles for a second, thinking he missed a step, - so uncomfortable awareness about another person in his flat appears when Keay starts to empty the contents of the bag. There are milk and chocolate on the counter, Brussel sprouts, tomatoes, a few new spices - a lot of things. 

“Is that coconut oil?” Michael asks, hoping he doesn’t sound like he feels - an utter idiot. Keay frowns at him, then frowns at coconut, apparently, oil, then at him again. 

“I kind of thought I’ll make a stew… But now I figured stew will be too heavy,” Keay admits, like he made a _mistake_ of sorts. Michael weakly wonders if the man gave him some crazy pills. “Guess I’ll still use a bit while stirring.” 

Without waiting for Michael’s reaction - understandable, by all means, - Keay turns the heat on, finds a saucepan in one of his cupboards. Fills it with water. Michael stares. 

“I never cooked for other people,” Keay admits, conversationally, and starts peeling small potatoes, his movements smooth and quick. Tiredness touches behind Michael’s knees, hinting he should change his posture a little bit, but his brain refuses to do anything meaningful. “My father taught me how to do some things... God, the man adored cooking. I mean, between her treating him like shit and his work, he still found time to prepare some, I don’t know. Salmon? Rice and beef? Bad with names of these things,” he puts potatoes in the largest bowl Michael has and puts it under the streaming water. Makes a vague gesture at Michael’s kitchen, “this reminds me of him. I really don’t remember much, but… Anyway,” Keay turns to Michael with a smile, “you should probably lie down.” 

Michael has some opinions on that, itchy from worry. He’s very not into strangers lurking in his kitchen making a..soup when he’s asleep and helpless. And even if this sentence sounds ridiculous, he has been working at Magnus Institute for almost five years. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, not knowing what he wants or doesn’t want to hear, feeling that he’s actually not into standing, too. Keay sighs. 

“Look,” he turns the water off and meets Michael’s eyes. Michael imagines how he looks right now and cringes (invisibly, he hopes.) “I guess. Sorry about that. I should have asked.” 

“Should have asked what?” Michael asks and feels a sneeze formulating in his nose, inhales and exhales, he hopes, not very loudly, to hold it. 

“May I take care of you?” 

Michael hears unspoken _you seem like you need it_ and grimaces. “Is it some kind of charity case?” Michael knows there’s tired finality in his tone. Knows that Keay hears it, too. 

“No,” Keay replies carefully. Leans onto the counter. His gaze is thoughtful, contemplative, like he chooses what words to offer him. “Recently, I wasn’t in a very good place. No details, but, well. Some employment staff, some family stuff, some creepy stuff. I was alone and..that was shit. And I thought - would be nice if someone came and dealt with this shit with me. Not for a long time, of course, I want my manliness to survive,” he moves his eyebrows again, in that really funny way that made Michael laugh a few hours ago and barks a laugh, “but for a bit. Obviously, no one came. It sucked.” Gerard shrugged, turning his intense and, well, sad eyes away from Michael, “I thought - if I have time and I can make someone life less miserable, why not?” 

“Less miserable,” Michael repeats, dryly, because it’s him. Even if he is miserable, he’d really prefer for other people not to figure it out. Or keep silent about it. Or not to be miserable, at all. The latter would be ideal, yes. 

“In alone and sick and monsters way,” Keay adds, “not in dude what the fuck is your life way.” 

“Really?” Michael asks. He, personally, has some doubts. 

“Yes, really,” Keay assures. “I try to avoid being a hypocrite in this aspect. Also,” he grins, “you’re really pretty.” 

Michael snorts and does not blush. “Oh, does it help things?” 

“It is, actually. I’m all about aesthetics,” Keay admits, his grin still there and still teasing. Michael realises that snorting wasn’t his best life choice and sneezes, his lungs singing their sick stupid song. 

“Bless you,” Keay says and offers him a napkin. Michael brings it to his nose and feels a surge of sudden guilt when he continues: “So, what do you think about me staying with you for a bit and making shit less shit?” 

“Um,” he starts, lamely, “Yeah. That… That would be nice, actually. I’m sorry about, um…” 

“No, no, none of that, c'mon, dude,” there’s an impression of tooth pain on Keay’s face, that, now when Michael thinks about it, really reminds him of Ms Robinson in the moments when Michael starts apologizing. “I invaded your kitchen. I’d go feral if someone invaded my kitchen.” 

“Okay,” Michael finally finds himself a bit more relaxed and immediately feels feverish dizziness, earlier restrained by adrenaline and weirdness, coming back in waves. He makes a decision. “If you’ll decide to kill me in my sleep, tell Ms Robinson to-” 

“Chriiist, stop that,” Gerard says, putting his hands in the bowl with water and potatoes. “I promise I won’t kill you. Go take a fucking nap.” 

That’s endearing, thinks Michael. And does as he told. 

Before the power of nap takes him, he vaguely thinks about Mary Keay. He didn’t know much about her, aside from the fact she's an unpleasant woman and her son was - unfairly - accused of murdering her. And Gerard’s dad is dead, too. Family staff, huh. It must have been hard for him. 

  
  
  


“Oh, Tenth! Cool,” he wakes up under two more blankets than he remembers. Everything’s hot and sweaty, and he peers from under the blanket at Keay’s face - handsome face, by the way, if you don’t mind the scowl; good morning, Michael, - and sudden clarity that never brings good things. Also, his nose is working again, which means a wonderful, light smell of homemade food he feels right now is real and, quite possibly, he will even live to taste it. 

“You have a really nice smile,” Keay says, because Michael, apparently, smiles. He shrugs under the blankets, not quite knowing how to react to the compliment, and Keay - once again - makes a save: “Soup will cool enough in ten minutes. Wanna take a shower?” 

Or not. Michael understands that yes, he does, but stumbles across possible hidden connotations, involuntarily quirking the eyebrows. “Mr. Keay, I-” 

“Call me Gerry, please, we’re - I think? - almost the same age,” Gerry, fine, Gerry says, “I’m not trying to invite myself in your shower. Just had a fever a few times.” 

"Oh, okay, well, then I probably. Um. I'm totally up," Michael gets out of the blanket, stands, surroundings blurry in his eyes, and walks to the loo, his legs heavy. 

Hot water and his hair cover his body in a cocoon of inviting, good warms. He remembers his childhood, when his mother wasn't scared about his well-being and his father was _there_ , and they'd come up with a celebratory _we-are-together_ meal, and in the mornings before school, Michael would shower, listening to them cooking, and chatting, and laughing, and then he'd step out the bathroom into smell of coffee, pancakes, fresh juice. He shudders, wishing the parallel to go away, and starts washing his hair.   
  


"It must be a pain in the arse to take care off," Gerry says, nodding at his messy, wet bun, and moving a cup with something ..brown to his hands. It's chocolate. Hot chocolate. Michael bites his awkwardness and the urgency to produce as many questions as possible as quickly as his throat will allow him off, and just smiles, gratefully, not answering the hair question.

"Thank you." 

Gerry opens a saucepan, takes two small blue bowls from the cupboard. To Michael's surprise, he still can feel the smell of the soup— a rich flavour of bullion, fresh, delicate smell of herbs, fried garlic Keay's, apparently, used to stir tofu. 

He sips chocolate and sits, looking at Gerry's strong back, waiting for him to ladle the soup out. Gerry's hair is also tied, but it's a low, simple pigtail, laying on his nape and lower, a dark contrast to a bright yellow shirt. There's an eye on the back of his neck. Another tattoo. Michael _wonders_ about things he probably shouldn’t. 

"Here," Gerry turns in a gracious move — Michael, frankly, deemed that impossible in his tiny kitchen, but, well, must be something supernatural — and puts the bowl, a spoon, and a plate with few buttered toasts in front of him.

It's too bad Michael's senses came back to him because he starts staring again, eyes travelling up and down Gerry's posture, tattoos on the neck, pierced ears, a neutral face that is composed in an expression that can be quickly switched to scowl. 

"Thanks," Michael repeats and sips a bit from a spoon. And it's very good — of course, it is. Doesn’t compare to takeaways. And he buys really tasty takeaways. "It's amazing." He says earnestly and Gerry gestures at him, turning away to take his bowl. 

"It's edible," Gerry states after a first taste. He sits opposite Michael, their long legs brushing under the table with his, but he isn't bothered: he laughs, because _what a familiar high self-esteem_. He finishes his bowl quickly, wondering at the unexpected eagerness of his hunger and tolerance of his sore throat, and watches Gerry put pieces of toast in the bowl, nipping on the edges of his mug. 

"Why so many eyes?" He decided to ask after thanking him for the meal (which gets him another brilliant sample of eyeroll). 

"Do you mean, like, in general, or on me?" Gerry asks after his last spoonful and stretches out, occupying, as it seems, all kitchen with his long hands. 

"On you."

"Mn. One of Leitners got me. Lonely one. Turned me into a magnet for their avatars," Gerry chewed on his lip, reaching to his cup on the counter. "Fuckers can't stand being known, so I decided to put my allegiances to print with a special ink from Egypt. Marked by the Eye." He smiles. "How's your relationship with your patron?" 

"What do you mean? I don't have one," Michael hums curiously. Gerry's face starts moving in an interesting way as if he puts all his efforts into _not frowning_. 

"Oh yeah," he finally croaks and then there's a flash of the cold smile Michael's seen when they were talking about the Buried. And then it’s gone. Gerry says: "Right, then. Let's get you to bed… oh my God, really," he smiles and touches Michael's wrist for a fleeting, brief moment, after he probably makes a puzzled face again, "you _will_ understand when I hit on you. Let's go, up." 

"You so bossy," Michael complains, trailing after him, "this is my flat. Why are you so bossy?" 

"You haven't slept your fever off yet," as if in confirmation, Michael gets into another coughing fit, wet sounds bubble in his chest, which is, well. "Drink these in the morning," Gerry puts a bag from the pharmacy on his drawer and a water bottle near it. 

"You already going?" Michael asks, cursing his tongue and his brain and his _everything_. 

"Yep," Gerry replies, amusement tangible in his voice, "I saw your door closes automatically. You'll be fine." 

Michael sits on the bed and looks at his laptop. Then looks at Gerry. Then, on a quiet, warm day outside the window. He feels that he starts pouting — which is a terrible, terrible thing to do in front of other adults, and, when Gerry starts laughing, he yanks Gerry’s hand under the blanket and pulls him onto himself. 

Gerry, who was not expecting this but at the same time trusted? him enough not to think he's possessed with monsters, fall on his bed. Which is, Michael thinks through fever, which starts to boil in his head and his lungs again, a really nice development. Gerry grunts and opens his mouth to say something, but Michael waves at him. 

"Two episodes?"And nods at the laptop. Gerry smiles. 

  
  
  


If he doesn't exactly watch Christmas special, that's Gerry's fault, he decides when rolling and grunting and trying to find a comfortable position near the man and the laptop on Keay's belly results into him lying on Gerry's shoulder, Gerry's big palm is — very decently — on his waist. 

He tries not to think too much about being clingy, because the expression on Gerry's face doesn't shift from careful amusement. Keay’s muscles, Michael notices, aren’t quite used to it, like he doesn't know if kindness is possible to school, using his set of features. 

So. After a few first minutes of Donna Noble and Chizwik, he falls asleep. 

Several times, Michael bends in half in coughing fits that scratch his lungs from the insides and burn. Then, Gerry carefully disentangles himself and fetches him warm water. Michael doesn't remember any time from adulthood when being sick felt so good. Before falling asleep again, he watches Donna being amazing, feeling rare, quiet laughs with his ear. After a third (he thinks) waking, in the back of his mind, curls the lazy though about a scary virus that Gerry might catch. Gerry chuckles, warmly, at that moment, like he's very pleased with himself. 

His lungs calm down he sleeps for maybe three hours? And wakes to the hot crook of Gerry's neck, which is wonderful, partially because that means he is _colder_ than Gerry. 

Then, he realizes Gerry _sleeps here_ and his heart does a lot of not funny things that are bad for his health and for his everything. Before he starts eating himself on the subject of well, _How could you_ , Gerry's fingers gently cover his hand. 

"Stop thinking, you’re waking me up," he says, voice dark and hoarse from the sleep and Michael stares at the wall, too flustered to process his response to that. He made a person care about him and then pulled him to bed, and fell asleep, and probably was _coughing_ at him. God. This is awful. He turns his head. Gerry looks at him with a gentle, sad expression, waiting for the inner micro-breakdown finale. 

He feels eyes on Gerry's throat look at him at once, but then he makes another decision and shakes it off, and falls on his back. He pulls his arms around Gerry's waist and closes his eyes. Breathes in. 

"Sorry," he mumbles at Gerry's neck, feeling him shudder a little. His breath tickles, probably. 

"Nothing to apologize for," Gerry assures. Michael smiles, weakly, and after a few minutes, the dream takes him. Through a frail vail, separating him from the real world, he feels Gerry tug him tighter. 

  
  
  


He wakes up aching, but pleasantly cold, alone. The bed near him is still warm and there are some sounds from the kitchen, presence sounds. He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, washes his face, and goes to the morning light and the smell of coffee. 

Gerry sits with his phone in one hand and a mug in another. He wears a green shirt, now, a good colour on him. He moves coffee to him and makes a _c'mon_ , _drink_ gesture, offers a brief smile and stands up. 

"I came to the conclusion that leaving while you sleep isn't a good idea," Gerry says, approaching Michael. "So. I've gotta go." 

"Okay," Michael says, coffee is really _good coffee_ in his mouth. He feels something heavy and light at the same time in his chest, sighs. "Thanks for taking care of me." 

He isn't flustered, like, at all. He's an adult. He can deal with it. They walk to the door and Gerry turns to him before it and kisses him on the cheek. Michael frowns at the choice of his kissable body parts and quickly slaps himself in his mind. 

"I'm hitting on you," says Gerry, his voice extremely satisfied. "My number is on the counter. Get better, huh?" 

"Okay," Michael agrees. Gerry opens the door and steps over the threshold. Michael thanks him again. Gerry smiles. 

  
  


On the kitchen counter he finds a note with a number and few lines in bad, bad calligraphy: " _P.S_ . _if you want to help, start recording old statements instead of just reading them. And, maybe, listen to a few visitors? I'm sure Gertrude won't mind_ . _She also never asks for help. G._ "

**Author's Note:**

> you can totally yell at me on twitter https://twitter.com/mrskinseyfour 
> 
> and yeah, English is my third language and it shows. if someone wants to yell at my errors, you're welcome too.


End file.
